Konstantine
by PoppyParanoia
Summary: Ryou is a very messed up boy. He's got a few self-image issues which are slowly killing him. Meanwhile, the one person that can make things better, Bakura, has a few skeletons in his own closet that have to come out sooner or later. Tendershipping. R&R. Currently on hiatus!
1. Fourleaf Clovers

**AN: **Since I've finished Paint The Roses Red, I thought I'd give you all a brand new (short-ish, maybe only three or four chapters to be honest) chapter-fic (I did mention a fic was in progress in the last chapter of PTTR, so I'm so sorry for the delay, I do tend to put the pro in procrastinate _far_ too often). I actually have another fic I wanna put up as well but I'm not entirely happy with it at the moment so it'll probably be up soon-ish.

This is gonna have eventual Tendershipping in it. Sweet, sweet, tendershipping. And maybe some other couples will be added as I write this story. Also it's AU and a tad depressing in some places, I think.

Anyway, that's what this is xD

Enjoy.

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><p><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I still don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!, the plotline is fictional, and the song lyrics and title are from Konstantine by Something Corporate (my favourite song ever).

**Warnings: **Slash, angst, a smidgen of violence. The rating may change as this fic is updated.

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><p><strong>K<strong>o**n**s**t**a**n**t**i**n**e**.

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><p><strong>1. Four-leaf Clovers<strong>

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><p><em>"I can't imagine all the people that you know, and the places that you go when the lights are turned down low."<em>

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><p><strong>Ryou's POV -<strong> _that morning_.

He bites his lip. Cool, padded fingertips drag across scaly skin, the barely-there muscles twitching underneath the touch, and he swallows hard, wishing in the back of his head that he felt a little bit more…_alone_.

He's inside, but maybe the air-conditioning is on too high (which wouldn't surprise him, really, since it's summertime), because a quick chill flies through him. He shivers, and his hands fly away from his skin, away from the bones that stick out from underneath the pallid, paper-thin flesh: hard, ugly, and knotty.

For some reason, he feels self-conscious. He's standing in a dressing room behind a locked door, with the attendant not even outside collecting clothes or keys, and yet he swallows for a second time, the bile and saliva sluggishly sliding down, sticking to his throat as his body twists with discomfort. No eyes are on him, despite the heavy, ashamed feeling in his gut, and even if he looks hard enough and _thinks _he can make out white shells with dark irises staring at him accusingly, it's all just his imagination. He _knows_ it. He has this dreadful habit of making something out of nothing, of causing problems when there are none. Which, honestly, is probably why he's here on a Saturday, all alone, half-freezing in the back of a surprisingly empty dressing room.

He swallows again once he decides that he is _indeed_ by himself, and he turns his sunken eyes back to his reflection. "Dammit," he mutters, his voice coming out raspy, groggy, like he hasn't slept for a long, long time. "So hideous."

It's sort of a vain thing to say, really; silly, almost. Calling himself, what he sees in that full-length mirror hanging on the wall of the small cubicle he's in, "hideous". It's something that a prissy sixteen-year-old girl would say as she tried on a billion skirts or dresses that cost more than two months worth of his rent, frustrated after hours upon hours of shopping and not finding _just_ the right outfit.

It's not something a twenty-year-old boy would say.

But, alas, Ryou has the self-esteem of a rock, and it doesn't matter what he wears (or, rather, in this case, what he's _not _wearing), because no matter what, he thinks that his toothpick body, his big hazel eyes, and his too-girly face are always disgusting. His appearance never, ever seems to look right. No matter what he tries, he can never seem to figure out how to make himself _acceptable_.

"Acceptable" to _himself_, at least, which is sort of funny (in a pathetic way).

Maybe he stares at himself in the mirror and traces over his bones and scrunches up his nose in disgust because he's a perfectionist. His favorite high school English teacher always used to say that he obsessed over perfection too much. He would turn in draft after draft of a poem or an essay, never quite satisfied with whatever he originally wrote up. He could always spot _something _wrong that he just _had _to fix, because anything less than extraordinary, the absolute best Ryou could do, was unacceptable.

His teachers said it was crazy, that perfectionism would only drive him mad, and that he really should learn to "chill out".

Not possible.

Not for Ryou.

He thinks that maybe, some of that perfectionism has bled into his self-image, because now, Ryou hasn't been able to look at himself for three and a half years without feeling nauseated and wanting to break whatever reflective surface he's looking at into a million and one tiny, tiny pieces. He's atrocious. He's filled with flaws, riddled with mistakes. It's like the oh-so-infallible God just decided that one day, "Hey, I'll slip up while creating someone!", and that person he chose to mess up was Ryou.

The worst part of it all?

He can't fix _any _of it.

The boy sighs, and finally, he turns away from the mirror.

He's frustrated with himself, because when he looks into that mirror he sees nothing at all. No beauty, no life, no brown eyes, no white hair, no pale skin. He's like a vampire: no reflection whatsoever, because he's not worthy enough to have one.

"Sir, are you all right?"

The soft, mildly concerned voice rings through the air, followed by a small rap on the wooden door of his fitting room, and Ryou jumps, his heart skipping two beats. At first, his pale pink lips twist in annoyance, because, good _God_, that surprised him. When did the employee that had disappeared for her "lunch break" (Ryou eavesdropped on her conversation earlier) come back, all of a sudden? He almost has a right mind to turn around and start yelling at her to be more careful and not scare the hell out of customers like that. Instead, though, Ryou just closes his tired eyes and exhales, hands stopping their travels across his skin and resting on his abdomen. He takes a few seconds, counting them carefully.

_1, 2, 3…_

"I'm fine." Once again, his voice comes out too hard-to-hear, and his words sound rough and awkward. He scowls at the sound (though she can't see it) and clears his throat. "I'm fine," he repeats himself, trying to sound surer, more in-control. If there's one thing Ryou can't stand, it's people worrying about him. Pitying him. Whatever. He inhales, and scrunches up his nose at the too-sweet scent of the perfume they spray all over the store to trademark their items. "Just, give me a moment." A pause. "Thank you, though."

No, not really "thank you".

More like, "get the hell away."

But Ryou's too polite to say _that_.

There's a moment of silence from the other side of the door, and then the girl's voice comes back with a somewhat unsure but still polite "okay", and Ryou hears her light footsteps walking back down the dressing rooms' hall. He closes his eyes again, shaking his head the slightest bit.

Ryou makes his life so much more difficult than it should be.

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><p><strong>Bakura's POV<strong> - _that previous evening._

The man runs.

He runs so fast. He's not sure he's ever run this hard in his entire life.

Then again, before this moment, he's never run for his actual _life_, before.

His chest burns and stings, and when he can manage to swallow, the spit is thick and slides down his esophagus like acid. It burns the delicate tissue as it falls, and the sharp intakes of the air slapping against his face as he runs, breath wild, aren't helping much with the overall effect. But that pain, the pain of his burning breaths and aching, throbbing legs, is nothing compared to the absolute _terror _that is flying through his veins.

It's pulsing, cutting through him like knives as his feet take him farther and farther away from _whatever _horror that's behind him. His gaze flies back over his shoulder, staring back into the darkness of the alleyway again and again, like he's double-checking something. Making sure he's not being followed, making sure that in a few moments, he can stop, finally giving his body a rest.

And then it happens.

"_Oomf!_"

He is down on the ground, there is a knife to his throat, and seconds later, he is dead.

It's quiet, suddenly.

The man's footsteps no longer echo down the nasty asphalt. No more trash cans being knocked over as the person clumsily races through the area, clattering loudly and spilling its filth. No frantic, heavy breaths.

Just silence.

The knife is smooth, and when it's wiped, the silence is broken with a sick, scratchy sound as it moves against the ground. In the dim light from the streetlight that lies only a few meters ahead, waiting at the end of the alleyway, the metal shines for a moment. It is covered in thick, dripping, dark crimson.

The owner of the weapon doesn't miss a beat.

With a small breath out, the knife is carefully slid back into the pocket of the jeans, and the person stands. There's a momentary pause as the killer stares at his victim, and what should be a face of remorse and horror is only a blank slate. Blood is everywhere, dripping from the slit on the now pale throat to the asphalt, slipping into the small cracks of the stone, moving outwards and almost reaching the shoes of the murderer.

But the murderer steps back.

He shakes his head. "What a pity," he grumbles, and then, he sighs. It's shaky, and when he's done, he thrusts his hands into his jacket's pockets, stuffing them down low. "He really shouldn't have gotten involved, should he?" He's talking to himself, of course, somehow trying to justify a ruthless, inhumane act. Really, no matter how many times he does this, he always tries to put some reason behind it. And then, with another exhale, he's turning around, sauntering away from the crime scene like he didn't just slit an innocent man's throat.

No one was there to witness the killing, and the next morning, when the police finally stumble across the poor soul's body, he will be long gone. It's deep downtown, and no one but whores and drug addicts hang around on these streets, and dead bodies and blood are nothing new to them. By the time the cops figure out there's a body lying in this alleyway, there won't be a trace of him there, not a fingerprint, not a hair, not even a drop of his breath in the air the cops breathe. He's too good for that.

He leaves the body to bleed and rot for however long it will, hands still in his pockets, eyes to the stars as he walks away, whistling a light-hearted tune that he can't name.

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><p><strong>Ryou's POV<strong> -_ that mid-morning._

Ryou steps out of the store, and he almost finds a relief in the crowded but somehow fresher air of the open street, a welcome change to the overwhelming, perfumed scent of the store. In his long fingers he carries his most recent purchase, in a too-big bag for what he actually _bought_. Despite the fact that he spent _hours _in the store, in that dressing room, staring at his naked form in the mirror, analyzing every bone he could see poking through his paper-thin skin, every curve of his muscles, he bought something small, and a simple, blue-striped scarf does _not _require the huge carrier they gave him. Worse yet, it's covered with some half-naked man, which just makes Ryou feel really, really uncomfortable.

He doesn't do well with nudity, even if it's not full.

It just reminds him of that reflection in the mirror, of the sick, ugly boy that stares back at him every time he looks into it.

Ryou shivers.

He starts walking after a few more moments, because it was starting to look weird with him just _standing _there outside the shop's doors, staring at people and absolutely nothing at the same time. He doesn't really have any place to go, and he just curls his fingers around the handles of the bag tighter. He passes so many people, and he sees so many faces, drinking in their features, their expressions. He wonders if any of them feel like he does, if they hate who they are as much as Ryou hates who he is. If he had to guess, he'd guess probably not.

He's a pretty messed up kid, and he doubts that _anyone_ is like him.

The boy pushes through throngs of people, brushing and bumping shoulders, mumbling a few "excuse me's" and getting a few "sorry's" or "move's" in return. It's odd; everyone seems a bit nastier than usual, even for a Saturday. He would have expected the people to be a bit happier on the first day of the weekend, but what does he know about happiness, really? He's not exactly the picture of joy, himself.

In fact, as he moves through the crowds and crowds of shoppers, he ducks his head and averts his eyes from anyone who happens to catch his gaze, acting less-than-friendly to everyone that passes by. Ryou just does not do well with people, and so he's given up on even trying. He's the epitome of social awkwardness. He couldn't hold a polite conversation with a stranger or even an acquaintance without stuttering or wringing his hands or just making things plain uncomfortable, and it's always been like that, ever since Ryou can remember. He's only had one or two friends throughout his entire life, people he can actually speak to without hyperventilating, blushing, or making a total fool of himself.

Sometimes, it gets lonely.

In fact, Ryou feels lonely a lot, even crammed between hundreds of bodies on this busy street.

A sigh escapes his chapped lips, and the boy blinks as he hears his stomach suddenly grumble. He hates that noise. It's so sick and hollow and makes Ryou feel nauseated.

Taking a quick look at his watch, he sees that it's close to noon, but since he didn't eat breakfast that morning, it's only expected that he'd be hungry. Up ahead, Ryou can see a few resteraunts, but he doesn't stop his fast-paced steps as he gets closer.

Ryou's not going to eat.

He blows out a breath as he passes by the delicious smells and yummy buffets and menus, all of which just make his stomach growl harder, and his lips twist in distaste.

But still, he walks away, and he tells himself that the reason he didn't stop to eat was because he really doesn't have the time.

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><p>Ryou pushes open the door to his apartment with his knee, one hand still holding onto the too-large bag that holds his small purchase and the other hand handling the keys. Peering inside, he notices that his home seems empty; his roommate, Bakura, has gone off somewhere. The blinds covering the two doors that lead out to the small balcony are open, and the sunlight pours in. Everything's shining with brightness, and Ryou squints slightly, making a small noise of annoyance at the back of his throat.<p>

He steps fully into his apartment, closing the door and tossing his keys onto the coffee table. Slipping off his shoes, coat, and hat (yes, he's wearing _all _of that in 75 degree weather) he takes out his scarf and throws the bag off to the side, making a mental note to throw it away as soon as possible.

His life can be so monotonous, he thinks, as he moves around his small abode, picking up a few things left out here or there. He wakes up, goes to work, maybe goes shopping or sees one of his three friends, and then goes to sleep. There's nothing that's ever exciting, nothing that's ever new. There's no love, no arguments, no fighting, no sex, no drugs. There's nothing of the sort that most of Ryou's young, college friends or acquaintances participate in or deal with.

Honestly, though, when he thinks about it, Ryou would rather _not _be involved with all of that, because Ryou is different. Ryou is boring. He prefers books to booze, and being by himself to being in a mass of crowded, dancing bodies in one of LA's clubs. He's OCD. He cleans everything all the time, and the only time anything is ever out of place is when messy, somewhat un-organized Bakura leaves things out. Ryou always finds himself cleaning up after his friend, and later on, he'll scold him, though his roommate obviously doesn't take it to heart. There's always more mess the next day.

But the boy doesn't mind too much, deep down. He may act frustrated or irritated on the surface, but underneath the facade, it gives him something to do when he cleans up. Plus, in a strange way, having someone else's things sprawled out everywhere instead of tucked neatly in drawers or closets like all of his own belongings are reminds Ryou that he's not _totally _alone. There is _someone _there. There's someone who doesn't find him too dry or too picky or too odd, someone who doesn't leave him. There's someone who finds _some _strand of worth or interest in his ways and his mind and his looks to stay and live with him, and for the past two and a half years, too.

At the thought of Bakura, Ryou can't help but let the small smile slip to his lips as he heads to the back bedrooms. The smile is fleeting, though, because Ryou doesn't like smiling. He doesn't do it often, so when he does, it feels too weird and he tries not to keep it on his face for long. Scarf in hand, he tries to clear his mind of smile-worthy thoughts and exhales, beginning the mental debate of whether or not he should get a dog. Bakura would probably be okay with it, and Ryou's always enjoyed dogs, so why not? Besides, it might give him some companionship when he felt lonely, when his roommate was out partying like he did almost every night.

He opens the door to his room, places the scarf neatly into his top drawer, and then heads back out into the hallway.

But, the problem is, Ryou thinks as his brow furrows, suddenly noticing that Bakura's door is closed (which is odd), a dog is a lot of responsibility. It's a lot of _dirtiness_, too, especially if Ryou gets a puppy like he really wants. He would have to get the dog trained quickly, pay for the obedience school, Ryou, because otherwise he'd go out of his mind with frustration and Ryou really doesn't want _that_, but obedience school is expensive and—

"What are _you_ doing here?"

Ryou feels bad at the way that question comes out.

It comes out harsh and accusing and maybe even a little _mean_.

Ryou was just surprised, is all. He didn't expect to see his roommate, half-naked, jacket and jeans sprawled all along the ground in his messy bedroom (Ryou respected his Bakura's privacy and didn't go all OCD in _his_ bedroom, at least), swaddled in a million blankets and sheets, half-asleep.

"Er, I mean, sorry. That sounded mean. I just…" Ryou sighs, blowing out a huge breath, resting his hand on the doorknob and tilting his hip, lazily leaning against the door. "I thought you went out. I didn't expect to see you still sleeping at…" he glances at his watch, "…12:30."

Bakura doesn't respond right away, probably trying to ignore him and go back to sleep, so Ryou takes this moment to glance around his room, trying to figure out if he had spent the previous evening partying. Aside from his clothes and belongings being tossed around the room carelessly (which is nothing new), the blinds are drawn, causing the entire room to be cast in a stuffy sort of darkness, so Ryou automatically guesses `hangover'. He inwardly groans. Dealing with a puking roommate and running to the store for Gatorade and setting out black coffee and Advil aren't on the top of his "Favorite Things to Do" list, but he does them anyway, for some godforsaken reason, when Bakura needs him to.

Ryou's too nice for his own good, sometimes.

"_Bakura_," Ryou prompts, his voice a bit sharper, trying to ignore the fact he feels a strange sort of satisfaction when his friend groans, moving about a bit in the cocoon of blankets he's enraptured in. Ryou doesn't care if he has a hangover or not; do _not _ignore Ryou when he's talking or trying to talk. Like smiling, he rarely ever does it, and when he does, he doesn't appreciate being brushed off. "Are you hungover?"

A frown takes hold of his face at his flatly-toned question, and he crosses his skeleton-thin arms across his bony chest, huffing a bit. He hopes the answer is `no'. "Answer me, seriously. Because, like, it's fine if you go out and party, but if you keep coming back wasted and just expect me to—"

"I'm _not _hungover, Ryou. Relax."

His own harsh tone is overshadowed by the grumble he gets as an answer from his friend, and Ryou blinks, trying not to take offense. Really, Ryou's so sensitive, he annoys _himself_. Instead of letting his hurt show, he narrows his hazel gaze and tightens his crossed arms. "Well, fine then," he replies, trying to just sound irritated, like he wants to get this exchange over as soon as possible. "What's wrong with you, then?"

Bakura inhales deeply, not replying right away, the mound of blankets covering his thin body rising with his breath. After he blows it out (loudly and over-exaggeratedly, too, Ryou notes), he finally moans, getting out all his frustration at the obviously unwanted wake-up call. Ryou waits a moment more, and then there's some shuffling of sheets. The blankets slowly slide off of the form in the bed to reveal Bakura's head sticking out from underneath, white hair disheveled and sticking up every which way, tired face pale, brown eyes glaring at his friend.

Ryou holds back a laugh.

"I just was out late, last night," Bakura finally answers, his voice groggy and sleepy. Slowly, he sits up a bit father, the blankets falling down and pooling around his lean waist, and Ryou feels a sudden heat creep up his cheeks as he sees Bakura's not wearing anything but boxers. Averting his hazel eyes, Ryou mutters,

"Well, that can't be healthy for you. And are you missing work? `Cause it's really late."

After his words, Bakura reaches up his hands and runs them over his face, letting out a loud groan that makes Ryou cringe a bit and almost, _almost_, feel guilty for waking him up. For a moment, his roommate just sort of wallows in his post-wake-up misery, and then finally, he lets his arms drop back to his sides with a soft `thud'. "No, I'm off today," the boy finally answers, not looking at Ryou, voice flat, and then Ryou watches as his mouth twists a bit in annoyance. "So you really _didn't _have to wake me up."

Bakura gives a small glare, now, in Ryou's direction, but Ryou just tries to ignore it. Shifting his weight on his long, tiny limbs, he just mutters back, "Well, _sorry_. It's just a nice day, all sunny and warm, like you like it. I thought maybe you'd want to…I don't know, whatever it is you do on pretty days."

With that, his roommate snaps into action. Inhaling deeply, the white-haired man throws the covers off of his body, shivering as the cool air reaches his warm skin, and he hops out of bed. Without so much as a word to Ryou, he reaches down for the clothes that lay discarded on the ground from the previous evening, until suddenly, he freezes in mid-swipe, almost as if he doesn't want to touch the jacket and pants.

Ryou's brow furrows as he waits a second or two and Bakura's mind obviously mulls over something that Ryou can't quite figure out. But, Bakura's not the type of guy to dwell on things, so as soon as he's paused, he's un-paused, not missing a beat. He reaches down the last few centimeters, grabbing his clothes and stuffing them into a messy, wrinkled wad in his fists. He tosses them off onto a pile of what Ryou presumes is a week's worth of dirty shirts and jeans, muttering, both to himself and Ryou, because he must have felt his friend's confusion, "Eh, those are so old. I've worn them for about three days. I'll just grab something else."

Ryou snorts. "Like I care what you wear," he says, trying to fake a bit of carelessness and maybe even a bit of annoyance, but Bakura just laughs weakly in response, already digging out his favorite pair of gray jeans and a t-shirt.

He and Bakura have a weird relationship.

They met two and a half years ago, when Ryou was dragged to some club by his now ex-girlfriend and Bakura was there. Ryou, being the socially inept, quiet kid he is, just stood in a corner while his fake blonde girlfriend ran off and mingled and danced with a million other guys (which, now that he thinks back on it, should have bothered Ryou more than it actually did).

Ryou remembers watching Bakura, and being amazed at how someone could be so…versatile.

Later that same evening, Bakura had walked up to him and smirked gently, holding out his hand to a wide-eyed Ryou, because he didn't actually know that people with that kind of guts existed. "Are you okay? You've been in this corner all night."

That's when it began. Ryou, the king of everything Bakura wasn't, and Bakura, epitome of everything Ryou wished he was, first met. From that day on, every cliche imaginable ensued. The two boys realized just how much they had in common, and like magnets, Bakura had this thing for Ryou's silence, and Ryou was addicted to Bakura's noise. After Ryou and said girlfriend broke up, Bakura saw how upset he was, and offered to stay with him for a while, so Ryou wouldn't feel so _lonely_.

"A while" turned into two years.

Yugi, Ryou's only other friend, was pretty cool with Bakura, and the two got along quite well, so there was no issue there. And usually, if something worked with Ryou, it was a miracle, so Yugi wouldn't have said anything, anyway, if it made Ryou happy to have the boy around.

Their friendship turned into a best friendship after a short time, and though they fight and rub each other the wrong way because they're like fire and ice, opposites by nature, Ryou can easily say that he feels more comfortable with Bakura than anyone else, even Yugi. So, when he and Bakura shoot small insults at each other, dripping with sarcasm and accompanied by eye-rolls, neither of them take it seriously, because they know that deep-down, they mean more to each other than anyone else in the world.

Once Bakura's fully dressed, Ryou steps aside, expecting Bakura to burst out of the doorway and race off to the kitchen for some food, but he doesn't. Instead, he pauses a moment, blinks, once again thinking of something Ryou will never know, and then, he walks to his one window and opens the blinds. The light streams in, sunbeams dancing in the air like small, shining specks of dust, and the boy inhales, staring out at the cloudless sky.

Ryou frowns.

"Bakura, are you okay?"

He's known Bakura long enough to be able to tell when something's wrong, and something _is_ wrong.

Bakura's quiet for a moment. There's nothing but the sound of the faint air-conditioning blowing through the vents, and maybe a few cars rushing past the apartment complex on their ways to who-knows-what, but all Ryou can focus on is how Bakura's got his back to him, hands tight, obviously not sure what to say.

That scares Ryou, because Bakura is never without something to say.

"I'm fine, Ryou," Bakura replies after too many seconds of silence. His voice is calm, smooth, and Ryou feels a small breath of relief leave him, because it's almost as if Bakura, with his tone, is telling him not to worry. "I'm just tired, is all."

Ryou nods slowly. "Yeah, I'll bet. How late were you out last night?" he asks, and his eyes watch Bakura as the boy walks from the window to the closet, pulling out a pair of shoes. Bakura shrugs. Ryou continues, "Where were you?"

He's really not _meaning _to sound like an interrogator, or sounding pushy, accusing, but it seems he just can't help it. He cares about Bakura, a lot, and the way his best friend disappears every night for hours and hours (usually returning in the early hours of the morning, because Ryou doesn't sleep well and can hear him coming) is a bit unnerving.

Finally, Bakura blows out a big breath, and he stands up straight after tying his shoes tightly. He watches Ryou for a moment, like he's trying to read what Ryou's thinking, what Ryou's trying to figure out by asking, which, really, isn't _anything_, but Bakura can act more paranoid than _Ryou_, sometimes. "I just went downtown for a bit," he finally murmurs in reply, looking off to the side, and Ryou can tell Bakura wants to drop the subject, so Ryou does. He inhales then exhales deeply, uncrossing his arms, about to say something when Bakura looks back up at him with those eyes of his and completely cuts him quiet.

Ryou hates how Bakura can take his breath away, sometimes.

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Bakura tilts his head a bit, analyzing Ryou again, except this time it's much less accusing and much more soft. "What do you want to do today? I feel like I haven't hung with you in forever." He laughs a little bit afterward, and the sound reaches Ryou's ears and makes his heart flutter against his ribcage. "Want to go out to lunch or something?"

Ryou squirms.

"Er, I…don't know," he says, awkwardly rubbing the back of his hair, giving a sheepish smile to his friend. "I was just downtown shopping, so I, kind of, already, ate…"

Lie.

Bakura blinks. It's as if he wasn't just upset at Ryou, tense about something Ryou doesn't understand. "What did you get?"

Ryou shifts his weight. Suddenly, his mind's flashing back to standing in that dressing room, his fingers roaming over bones and flesh, and he shivers, almost feeling the too-cold atmosphere and smelling the too-sweet perfume, again. "Nothing," he quickly brushes it off, not wanting to think about his gaze on his reflection, his sick, disgusting body in his eyes. "Just a scarf."

Bakura rolls his eyes, and he starts forward, pushing past Ryou so that he's halfway out the doorway when he stops. "God, don't you have enough scarves _already_? Seriously, you have a whole drawer full." A pause, and when Bakura's gaze lands on Ryou, it suddenly darkens. Ryou feels his stomach drop.

_Oh, boy._

"What?" Ryou asks, feeling his heart start to pound. "What is it?" Ryou's worried. What did he do _this _time? Not that he's surprised that Bakura's obviously upset by something he sees when he looks at Ryou, because Ryou's _always _upset by something when he looks at himself, but it still makes his stomach twist and a frown come to his lips when he sees that look in Bakura's eyes.

"Nothing," Bakura finally answers, laughing weakly, and shaking his head. Once again, he's silently telling his best friend `it's okay, calm down' because just as Ryou's been around long enough to know what's wrong with his friend, Bakura's been sticking with Ryou long enough to know when something's eating at Ryou, too. "It's just…" His gaze goes back to Ryou, scanning over the boy's thin body, eyes taking in the sight carefully. "You…you just look really thin. I don't know. Maybe I'm imagining things. But, whatever. We can go to the bowling alley or something, because I feel like bowling."

Ryou feels a wave of relief wash through his veins, and the heavy, sick feeling in his gut from before leaves. He feels like he can breathe again. "All right," he agrees with a small laugh, "That sounds fun, actually. Maybe we could get Yugi or someone to come, too."

Bakura nods.

Ryou waits.

His brow furrows when nothing else happens.

Usually, at this point, after plans have been made for the day, Bakura saunters off down the hallway, leaving Ryou in the dust. He goes scrounging around in the kitchen, looking for Fruit Loops and complaining when Ryou tells him he ate the last of them this week, and then he settles on a Pop-Tart instead.

But that doesn't happen.

Bakura keeps watching him with his eyes, and Bakura's eyes are sharp and dark. Ryou squirms, shrinking into himself the slightest bit, feeling like the look is cutting holes into his skin. Finally, Bakura reaches out, and he places a warm hand on his best friend's shoulder, squeezing gently.

"Ryou, you know that I'm here, right?"

His voice, despite his hard, searching gaze moments before, is gentle and warm. Ryou, who's quite taken aback and really can't think of anything else to say, finally answers, "Of course I do."

Bakura blinks, almost like he doesn't believe him.

Ryou swallows hard, and wishes that Bakura did.

Finally, his best friend sighs, and he drops his hand away from Ryou's shoulder, turning and finally moving down the hallway. He moves slowly, steady, and before he leaves he assures,

"I'm here if you ever want to talk about anything. Don't forget that."

Ryou watches him disappear around the corner, and he feels two feet tall.

* * *

><p>The next chapter should be up within the next week or so, but, y'know, school may interfere with that plan. It'll be up as soon as possible, at any rate.<p>

Reviews are greatly appreciated, thankyou muchly =)


	2. You're Restless

**AN: **This chapter's gonna have a little more angst. BUT it also has some tendershipping fluff in it! And bowling!Bakura. AND PUZZLESHIPPING. Weeeeeew~

_Italics_ = flashback.

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I still don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!, the plotline is fictional, and the song lyrics and title are from Konstantine by Something Corporate

**Warnings: **Slash, angst, violence, ANGST.

* * *

><p><strong>K<strong>o**n**s**t**a**n**t**i**n**e**

* * *

><p><strong>2. You're restless<strong>

* * *

><p><em>it's not hard to dream; you'll always be my konstantine, they'll never hurt you like i do.<em>

* * *

><p>Bakura doesn't mind Yugi.<p>

Really, he doesn't.

He thinks Yugi is a nice guy, almost sickeningly nice, in fact. He's always willing to talk and offer advice, always level-headed, continually offering a smile or some sort of understanding, no matter _what_ the situation. He could be in the angriest, most frustrated mood, but the minute _you_ came to Yugi with a problem, his face would melt into that angelic grin and he'd stuff whatever was bugging him deep down wherever he stuffed and stored all his feelings (because bottling up emotions never seemed to backfire on Yugi like it backfired on Bakura). Then, he'd pull you into a soft hug and offer to sit down and chat for however long it took to help you feel better, be it minutes or hours.

The warmth and genuine care that radiated off of Yugi made Bakura want to puke, sometimes. It seemed as though every second you were around Yugi, the minute you came within twenty feet of him, the lights shone a little brighter and everyone seemed a little happier, and Bakura swears he might have heard a "Hallelujah" chorus strike up once or twice in the background noise, too.

Though, despite the gut-wrenching feeling the white-haired man usually got when he was with Yugi, Bakura oddly didn't mind him. Perhaps it was because he was so opposite of _himself_; sure, Bakura loved to talk (oh, no doubt about that), but it was never to help people. Bakura was _far_ too selfish to want to lend a hand to anybody else unless it somehow benefited him in the end. Yugi's true-blue selflessness fascinated Bakura; he found himself watching the boy and marveling at the way he was so willing to give himself to others with no promise of anything in return. In fact, it was sort of _comical_ to him, and several times, Yugi had caught him chuckling at what, to the short boy, had been a simple, everyday act, and random bouts of seemingly un-provoked laughter are always the hardest to explain.

Bakura also guesses that somehow, Yugi's ridiculously angelic personality is what has made Ryou stick to him like glue for all these years.

Ryou is a sad kid.

If someone asked him to, that would be the best way Bakura could describe Ryou: sad. Sure, Ryou has his moments of happiness, smiles, and laughter, but most of the time, he's staring quietly off into space, his hazel eyes glazed over, and when asked what he's thinking about, he stays away from whatever was on his mind just a few seconds before like it was the Plague. Whatever Ryou's been through, Bakura's concluded, he can't seem to stop remembering, even though he tries his hardest to forget. It's a nasty paradox his poor friend is stuck in, and sometimes, Bakura really wishes he could get him out.

But since _Bakura_ can't ever seem to, _Yugi_ just might be the one way Ryou can occasionally break free.

Bakura sees how Ryou beams whenever Yugi's around, how his shoulders relax and he can finally breathe. He sees how excited Ryou always sounds at the prospect of Yugi coming anywhere with them, and how sometimes Ryou will just leave the apartment in the middle of the afternoon and drive off to the other boy's house.

Bakura _tries_ not to feel jealous; really, he does. He feels like he should understand it more than he seems to, accept it more than he seems to, but understanding and acceptance are harder than he would like them to be. The man has this weird feeling, habit with Ryou; he tries his hardest to make Ryou feel loved, protected. He has no idea why. Don't ever ask him to explain it. There was a certain protectiveness that he felt for Ryou: almost a "mother hen" kind of feeling (but not really, because that just sounds kind of creepy). Whenever Ryou's feeling down, Bakura always wishes _he_ was the one the other boy went to for comfort, for a hug, for a talk. It isn't like he doesn't make it _clear_ he's there if Ryou needs it. In fact, quite the opposite. And sure, to be fair, Ryou _d__oes_ go to Bakura for a smile or some encouraging words, but not like he goes to Yugi; just, Ryou isn't the type to open up easily. In fact, Bakura feels like the boy never fully opens up to _himself_, let alone someone else. Yugi is one of those rare souls who Ryou ever really fully gives himself over to, and frankly it drives Bakura crazy.

_Crash!_

The bright red bowling ball rolls smoothly, quickly down the polished, wooden lane, and Bakura smirks as he puts his hands on his hips, watching the pins fly. "Hmm," he hums in self-satisfaction, quickly spinning on his feet, to cock an eyebrow at Yugi. Bakura is a damn good bowler when he wants to be; his tenacity translates very well to the bowling alley, and he's actually pretty competitive (he's had a brutal bowling rivalry with Yugi going on for at least a year, now). He jumps around on the lane, radiating what seems to be endless confidence, even while holding a _12-pound ball_, and when he throws, he throws _hard_.

Moving smoothly, a strange, always fluid sort of grace coming from him, the twenty-year-old passes by Yugi, who stands for his turn at the front of the lane. Rubbing his hands together, quickly, Bakura saunters over to where Ryou sits in one of the white, shiny, plastic chairs, skinny arms wrapped around himself, looking around at everything like it's about to gobble him up. Plopping down in a seat next to his best friend, Bakura swings his arm around the back of the chair, watching Yugi for a few moments before gazing at Ryou. When Ryou doesn't really do much in reply, only smile the slightest bit, Bakura moves his own eyes back toward the front of the bowling alley. He sighs, gently, almost inaudibly, so as not to upset anyone. But, really, he _is_ a bit upset himself, because he knows Ryou's in one of his "moods" where he's about as quiet as the grave, wants to do nothing but crawl into his bed at home and read a book, and if he wants to talk to anyone, it's Yugi.

As usual.

It's really amazing how his best friend can just change so quickly, one minute being fairly decent, excited about going bowling with his friends, and the next quiet, huddled into himself, looking like he wishes he were anywhere but here. Bakura just can't win, sometimes, no matter how hard he tries to keep a smile on that boy's pretty little face.

Bakura turns his gaze up, watching the ceiling, the bright, fluorescent lights.

He understands when Ryou gets like this; hell, _he_ gets like this, too, falling into random, probably frustrating moods where he's all cold and distant.

But, at least _he_ has a good reason.

Suddenly, Bakura swallows, feeling uneasiness well in his gut, and he fidgets around in the seat.

He doesn't want to think about "his reasons," right now.

Turning, he reaches over, and he grabs his nachos, resting near him on the small wall that separates the three boys' bowling lane from the other person's next to them. Taking a tortilla chip and scooping up a load of warm, cheesy sauce onto the crunchy, salty surface, he plops the snack into his mouth.

He gives a small look to Ryou out of the corner of his eye as he puts his nachos back; he would offer to share, but, hey, he knows better.

* * *

><p>Yugi rubs his hands on his dark blue jeans once before standing. Shuffling up to the line of shiny, colorful bowling balls that sits right behind the lane, Yugi reaches down and grabs his own: a bright purple one. Hooking his fingers into the small holes, he gives Bakura a smile as he passes by, and Bakura just smirks right back, hands still resting on his hips, eyebrow still cocked, still oozing his never-faltering air of confidence and challenge.<p>

Yugi returns the feelings that Bakura seems to feel for him: the friendship, the like, the admiration of personality, and of course, he's forever grateful to the white-haired man for being Ryou's best friend. Though, to be completely honest, Bakura can get a bit…overwhelming. The man's intensity is non-stop; Yugi's been dealing with it, encountering it, for a good two years, now. At first, he found it amusing, maybe even inspiring. After a point, though, maybe as it is with every person on God's green earth, the initial beauty, the initial fascination, faded away. Now, Yugi still likes Bakura, but there's this…_fear_ that Yugi feels, now that he's gotten to know Bakura better, now that he's gotten to hear more from _Ryou_ about Bakura.

Ryou tells him about how Bakura just disappears from the apartment sometimes, not coming back until four in the morning. Ryou tells Yugi about how Bakura goes off into bouts of anger and frustration, seemingly at nothing, just yelling and arguing with his roommate, or getting quiet, cold, and distant. Ryou tells Yugi about how sometimes, when Ryou goes into Bakura's room alone, to pick up dirty clothes or borrow his iPod or something along those lines, the minute Bakura finds out, he _flips_, like he's hiding something in there he doesn't ever want Ryou to find, like there are piles of bodies or drugs or something equally as horrible stashed in the shadows that he's worried will come tumbling out.

Yugi usually just shrugs and says that "we've all got our skeletons in our closets, Ryou."

And that usually makes Ryou stay quiet for a good few hours.

But, truly, deep-down, it worries Yugi to hear all that he does about Bakura. He doesn't show it, for fear of agitating Ryou (who really doesn't need to be anymore agitated than he already _is_) or starting something with Bakura, who's really not the type to mess with. He won't give an argument or a problem up until either A) he's had his way or B) …well, there is no B, usually. Bakura likes to get what he wants.

The thing is, though, Yugi doesn't know _what_ Bakura wants; he doesn't know why Bakura acts the way he does, why he doesn't like to discuss his job, his past, or his family (that he, as far as Yugi knows, never sees),why suddenly, someone can get so somber, can be so miserable, so quiet, so randomly. He doesn't get it; he doesn't trust it. He doesn't like the idea of Ryou living with that, being exposed to that, especially considering Ryou's past. As far as Yugi is concerned, Ryou doesn't need anything _else_ troubling him that much.

Plus, Yugi knows that his relationship with Bakura isn't as nice as it seems on the surface. He knows there's this underlying _jealousy_, almost, that's present between them, or, rather, present on _Bakura's_ side. Yugi knows what it (or rather, _who_) the tense feelings are over, too: Ryou. Yugi's _fine_ with sharing Ryou, even relinquishing the tile of "best friend" over to Bakura; he knows that no matter what, Ryou and he will have _some_ sort of relationship over the years. He doesn't have this fear of losing Ryou to someone else that Bakura seems to have, so he easily gives Bakura and Ryou space; he doesn't even really come around to visit as much as he could or, honestly, as much as he'd _like_ to, because Bakura is just…very possessive. That upsets Yugi even _more_, added to everything he's already on edge with the other boy. He just doesn't know what to think of Bakura, and for some reason he himself, seems to be feeling that ambivalence more than ever.

But he plays along, smoothly riding out Bakura's ups and downs, doing what he needs to do and keeping a close eye on Ryou. He puts up with the other boy's shenanigans, his personality: little things like this stupid bowling competition that Bakura seems to be taking far more seriously than Yugi. And usually, things are okay between the three friends, but he's always particularly wary, for Ryou's sake. Yugi's a smart kid, and he's known Ryou long enough so that he can read his Ryou all too well; Ryou has feelings for Bakura, even if he won't ever fully admit it to _himself_, let alone anyone _else_. Yugi will just wait, though, and he'll be there, right by Ryou's side, ready for whatever happens, be it joy or picking up the pieces of a his friend's heart.

Swinging his arm back, quick and fast, Yugi lets the ball slip from his fingers. It rolls smoothly down the lane, the dark purple reflection bouncing off of the bright wooden panes as it moves, and Yugi bites his lower lip, waiting in anticipation. Really, like with most things in life, they are what you make of them, and Yugi tries to make things like this fun. Smirking slightly, the boy watches as the ball crashes into the red and white bowling pins, sending all but one flying. He lets out a huge, somewhat exaggeratedly-disappointed, "aww!" and shrugs. "Too bad!" he laments, turning to his companions, and Bakura smirks triumphantely, big brown eyes glowing, and Ryou just gives him a soft, half-baked smile.

Yugi moves back to his spot, the empty chair on Ryou's other side, but he doesn't sit right away; something suddenly flashes on the television screen right above their lane that was keeping track of the score for the past two games: the words "GAME OVER." Yugi looks at the final score: next to Bakura's name it reads 233, next to his own 205, and next to Ryou, 157. "You won," Yugi admits defeat, honestly only feeling slightly upset by the fact he's lost to the white-haired man. As aforementioned, he doesn't take these games or rivalries as seriously as Bakura seems to. He shrugs a second time, smiling, and Bakura smiles politely back. "I pay for lunch, next visit." A deal was a deal, as much as it sucked, sometimes.

Bakura and Yugi both turn their gazes to Ryou, who's still seated, not having moved an inch since the game officially ended. He seems to be zoning out, hazel-eyes slightly glazed over as he watches the air in front of him, and Bakura exhales quickly, almost in a huff, and Yugi just frowns. "Ryou?" he softly prompts, and quickly, the skinny boy snaps out of his reverie, blinking and smiling.

"Oh," he laughs, slightly forced. "Sorry, guys. I'm kinda out-of-it, today." Unwrapping his arms from around himself, long limbs lengthening in a slight stretch as his bony body uncurls, Ryou stands. "Who won?" he asks, but he already knows. He's tagged along on these little "bowling competitions" between his two closest friends for a while, now, and it always ends the same, unless some sort of weird fluke happens. Bakura's passion for the competition and the win tends to overpower his other friend's rather passive, calmer nature, so he nods, just letting out a small "ahh" as he sees the score. Then, he turns back to his companions. "So, are we going out to eat today or next time?"

Bakura just turns away, letting out another half-breath, half-huff, stretching his arms and moving to go grab his jacket, which rests next to his nachos. He knows better than to suggest what _he_ wants, which is to go out to eat; with Ryou in one of his moods, it'd be useless to tell the truth, because Ryou will just frown and be silent and brooding the entire trip, and Yugi will strongly protest, seeing that Ryou doesn't want to go, so Bakura's learned to just keep his mouth shut. Yugi shoots a small half-glance to Bakura next to him, and then, his purple-eyed gaze turns back to Ryou. He smiles. "Next time," he simply says, and Ryou lets out a small, small breath of relief, hardly noticeable to anyone who doesn't know what to look for (and, consequently, both Yugi and Bakura _do_). "I have some stuff to finish for a class tomorrow, and I'm working, sooo..."

With that, Bakura zips up his jacket and exhales loudly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Okay," he simply agrees, quickly. "Ryou and I can just head home." The three boys then gather their bearings, heading to leave, when suddenly, the television flashes from the cheesy, cutesy graphics for bowling games to a newsflash: _New gang murder in local city. _

Yugi and Ryou's eyes move to the screen as the bright white and red newscast moves across the TV, and Bakura feels like throwing up.

The overly-made-up, bleach-blonde news anchor keeps her face stone-still as she begins: something about a new murder in the city. The only reason it was notable was the brutal way the victim was killed—a nasty, deep slit to the throat—and who he _was_. Apparently, he was affiliated with one of the biggest, most notorious gangs around, and the murder was suspected to be committed by a member of the rival gang, another huge, underground organization in the city. Police have no leads on who the killer might be, and in a city, with crime rate at such a high, the chances of finding the murderer were low, and the investigators suspected that due to the high rate of known-gang killings happening in the past month or so, another one might occur soon.

Yugi shakes his head, frowning slightly, and Ryou just swallows, quickly turning away, ducking his head, muttering a "let's get out of here," and Bakura couldn't agree more.

* * *

><p>Yugi flicks on his turning signal as he maneuvers his car into the far left lane.<p>

Licking his lips, he taps his fingers on the steering wheel to a random beat in his head, mind mulling over the paper he has to finish tonight before it'll be due tomorrow morning at 9AM. He's trying to avoid thinking anymore about Bakura than he already _has_, today; he couldn't help but notice the way the other boy tensed up slightly when the newscast came on the TV, and Yugi found that odd. It probably was no big deal, though. With a soft sigh, Yugi mentally mutters something about "college" and "annoying professors," trying to keep his mind on one track, and that's when his phone goes off. Scooting around in his front seat a beat, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the phone, pressing the small green button as the light changes and he carefully turns his car down the next street. "Hello?"

"Hey, Yugi."

The chipper voice moves through the speakers to Yugi's ear, and a huge, blinding smile spreads across the boy's face. "Yami," he finds himself saying, voice smooth, even, not reflecting the butterflies of excitement that start up in his gut at the thought of the other man calling him. "Hi, how are you? Where are you right now?" He tries not to stumble on his words as they fly out of his mouth

Before he had to head back to his hometown for a family emergency, Yami and Yugi had been sort of…well, not _seeing_ each other, but yes. They were hanging out, not dating or anything, but seeing the occasional movie or heading to lunch or dinner together ever since they'd met in a class back in the first semester of college earlier that year. It was sort of a difficult relationship to explain to _himself_, let alone anyone else, so Yugi had managed to keep it all under wraps for now, even with Ryou. No one of Yugi's family or other group of buddies had ever met Yami, and for now, Yugi wanted to keep it that way. He had only really started to accept the fact he might be a _little_ bit more than completely heterosexual, and he didn't want to complicate anything he was feeling or experiencing with Yami by sharing it all with his relatives or his friends. Yami was an amazing, sweet, guy who always brought a smile to Yugi's face and complimented his level-headed personality very well with his own laid-back demeanor.

The _last_ thing Yugi wanted to do was ruin that with a small slip of the tongue.

Yami laughs on the other line. "It was okay. Turns out, the `family emergency' was my mother's cat getting sick, so..."

Yugi laughs, his already rather cherubic face getting a rosy tinge as he does so. "_Wow_," the boy replies, smirking slightly as he continues driving to his apartment.

Yami's silent for a moment, and Yugi can hear him swallow slightly. "So, hey," the slightly older boy suddenly starts speaking, again, sounding a bit out-of-character. "I…missed you."

Yugi smiles: a shining, gentle grin that slides over his sweet features easily. "I missed you, too," he whispers out in reply, and it's almost nice to know Yami's as careful with their relationship as he is. To Yugi, that translates to the fact that Yami values it as much as he does, and that's always good.

Yami laughs, that smooth, soft, all too natural, true-blue laugh that Yugi adores. "Yeah. So, uhm, you want to go out, tomorrow, maybe? I can pick you up for lunch at 12."

Yugi, completely forgetting about his seven page paper due in the morning and how weird Bakura seems to act when the topic of murder comes up, feels a smile spread widely across his face, his insides lighting up, and he breathes out,

"Yeah, Yami. That sounds great."

* * *

><p>Ryou takes a swig of the glass of orange juice he holds in his hand, moving around and out of the small kitchenette and into the living room of his and Bakura's apartment. He blinks his brown eyes and licks his lips as he sighs gently, shuffling over to Bakura, placing down his cup onto the coffee table, and without a word, he sprawls down on top of Bakura's frame. Nuzzling his nose deeply into the fabric of Bakura's jacket, he inhales the strangely sweet, calming smell of his roommate, and he moves his gaze to look adorably at Bakura.<p>

Bakura, suddenly interrupted by a lap, chest, hell, _body_, full of Ryou, "oomfs" as his form is suddenly met with the weight of his best friend. Despite himself, he feels a small smile slip onto his lips, and he cocks one eyebrow, gazing down, meeting his friend's seemingly innocent, wide eyes with his own. Normally, especially after coming home from the bowling alley and being in one of his "moods," Ryou would get all upset and mope around the house for a bit, but…well, for some reason, he just can't help it as a tickling, fluttery sort of feeling fills his gut and he really finds himself savoring Bakura's body warmth against his own a bit _too_ much. "_Ryou_," he finally speaks, voice gently chiding, as if he's talking to a six-year-old. "What do you want?"

Ryou makes a small noise, rolling over with a grunt as he turns onto his back. His head rests against Bakura's chest, his own legs interlaced with Bakura's, their limbs one giant knot, Bakura's arms on either side of his own upper body as he almost-kind-of-holds him on the couch. Bringing up his hands, he idly picks at the skin around his fingers for a moment and shrugs. "Nothing," he simply says, and then leans his head back, straining to look at his best friend, biting his lower lip. "I only want to be with you, is all. Is that a crime? Wanting to be around your best friend?"

Bakura resists the urge to quickly spurt back "yes," and just mutters a small, "no,"

A silence follows, and the two best friends don't really look at each other; they just lie in each other's arms, Ryou still staring at his fingers and Bakura still staring at the wall right above the top of Ryou's white hair.

"Bakura, why don't you ever let me know what you do for a job?"

Ryou's question is so innocent, so seemingly simple, as it breaks through the quiet atmosphere, suddenly, and yet Bakura hears it, and he feels his stomach sink to his feet.

He swallows, throat suddenly feeling dry, and then, he laughs. It's forced, but it's hard to tell; Bakura's good at faking, lying. "You know what I do, Ross. I work as a music tech, at clubs." The slightly older man turns, shooting a smirk up at his best friend. "That _is_ how we met, if you don't remember."

More silence descends, and now, it's Bakura's turn.

"Why don't you ever eat?"

Ryou feels his body freeze, and a frown pulls at his lips, swallowing hard. A sudden anger wells up inside him.

"Bakura, don't be immature. Just because I asked something that was personal that pissed you off doesn't mean that _you_ have to ask something to piss _me_ off…"

"It's not that big of a deal, Ryou. I just asked why you don't eat a lot. If it's as simple of a thing as you always seem to make it out to be, then just answer the question."

Damn, Bakura's good.

Ryou hesitates only a minute, and then, he shrugs. "I don't know. I just am never really hungry, I guess. Never had much of an appetite, or much of a metabolism."

Bakura nods, and Ryou thinks he probably doesn't buy it, but he's not going to ask for more of an explanation, and Ryou doesn't offer to.

A few more seconds pass without words, the clock in the kitchen so loud Ryou can hear the ticking from the other room.

"I wanted to be a musician, you know."

Ryou blinks, turning his gaze to his best friend. "What?"

Bakura fidgets around slightly. "I wanted to be a musician. You know, for a band, or something. But, it didn't work out."

Ryou bites his lower lip. "Did your…parents, like, get annoyed at you or something? Or did you just chicken out?" Ryou hates talking about things like this; he himself is sensitive to the topic of family, and he knows Bakura is, too. But sometimes, it just can't be avoided forever, and Ryou is, honestly, a bit curious. He's shared _his_ past with Bakura, but his roommate hasn't returned the favor, and there's this part of Ryou, that, well, wants to _know_.

Bakura's suddenly silent.

Ryou swallows. "'Kura…?"

"My parents were out of the picture a long time ago."

Bakura's reply is so monotone, so quick, so sharp, that Ryou actually feels like he's been punched in the gut at its curtness. He blinks, feeling the hurt fall over him, even though it _is_ his fault for asking, and quickly, he opens his mouth to apologize.

But, before he has a chance to get the "I'm sorry" to leave his lips, Bakura is standing in a small rustle of fabric and untangled limbs, not looking back once, not explaining himself once, muttering a, "I'm gonna go take a nap," and Ryou's left alone on the couch, completely confused, hurt, and missing his best friend's warmth just a little bit _too_ much.

* * *

><p><em>"Bakura, go. <em>Go_."_

_The six-year-old's brown eyes are wide with total terror and tears as he stares, white-faced, throat dry, at his mother. The woman's normally beautiful, loving, sweet features are now contorted in pain and fear as she cups her son's soft face, staring directly into his eyes, ordering him sternly. Gently, her thumb caresses his skin,__ a habitual, motherly action that she can't seem to shake despite the horrible, horrible circumstances. __Her heart pounds, and maybe she would be more scared if she hadn't __already accepted__what's going to happen to her, and the fact that she couldn't change it if she wanted to._

_All she's focusing on, this second, right now, is getting her child safe. She knows that if he moves, if he moves _now_, he has a chance. She's _got_ to give him that chance._

_Bakura feels like he's about to cry, his throat choked up, burning, his eyesight blurring, but his mom is letting out a small sound of annoyance, like she does on those __days when he steals cookies from the cookie jar before dinner and refuses to eat his vegetables or quiet down at bedtime, __and Bakura just feels his eyes burn harder.__ She pushes him, now, her hands on his back (and the little boy feels unnerved at the fact he realizes__ h__is mother is shaking, trembling)__, gentle but unrelenting, his tiny, clumsy legs almost tripping over each other as he moves across their home's wood floor, to the basement door. _

_"Bakura, sweetie, I need you to stay down there, and I don't want you to come out for a long, long time, okay?__ It'll be like hide-and-seek: your favorite game. Don't c__ome out until someone __finds __you!__" _

_Bakura can feel the atmosphere pulsing with something the little boy can't quite name, only, he thinks he's felt it before, in his nightmares. The ones that freeze him solid, where he can't move his muscles as he stands there and watches the monsters get closer and __closer, ready to gobble him up, horror pounding through his veins as he realizes he is totally, completely hopeless. He can __hear his mother's heart beating madly, __and it's terrifying for the six-year-old to think that his _mother_, the woman that's supposed to be his protector, his safe-haven, the one he can go to for warm hugs and kisses, is maybe as scared as he is. But, somehow, the little boy clears his mind enough to stumble through the semi-darkness of his home, moving through the now-open basement door as his mom all but pushes him down the__ steep __steps. __Normally, he'd take his time as he moved down the carpeted staircase, his tiny body not quite big enough to make it down quickly, but now, with his mother so close behind him, all but forcing him down as fast as his little legs can go, he really has no choice._

_He__ lets out a small, scared__ breath, and he's so confused as his mo__ther leads him to the very back of the basement, past the family room with the big TV where he__ watches movies on Sunday nights, eating popcorn and laughing so hard his stomach hurts after. She leads him past the air hockey table that his dad bought him for his last birthday, even though he wasn't even _tall_ enough, yet ("He'll grow into it!" his da__d insisted as his mom frowned), __past Bakura's favorite bright purple bean-bag chair, to the __garage, and__ then, she__ opens the door._

_Bakura hat__es the garage._

_He shivers as he s__tands at the doorway, the cool draft from the house's lower level suddenly blowing__ for__ward through the __room __right smack into him and his mother__, hitting him full-force__, and his small body shivers; the boy is still in his pajamas: a pair of checkered boxers and his favorite black top with a smiling green dinosaur in the corner,__ so there's not much to cover him from the cold. __Bakura is even more lost than before._

_"M-Mommy," he stammers out, turning, his wide, confused brown eyes boring up into his parent's. "M-Mommy, I-I thought the garage is—is _dangerous_. I-It has all of daddy's work things __and I'm not __a-__allowed in there…" The little boy's voice __is broken, stammering__, and it's both from a mix of the cold__, his tiredness,__ and the simple fact he hates the garage: its darkness,__ its weird smell,__ its spiders, its quiet.__ He'd never even _want_ to play in there, even if he was allowed._

_His mother, whose gaze honestly wasn't on her son, her dark brown eyes instead turned, terrified, to watch up the staircase__, looking for some unknown threat,__ suddenly looks down at her boy, and she swallows. A sadness, a regret wells up in her gaze that the six-year-old can't understand, and he just watches her as they both stay silent. He doesn't understand any of this; one minute, he's dreaming, sleeping soundly in his warm bed with his bright blue nightlight in the corner__ and his warm teddy bear close in his arms__, and the next, his mother is waking him up, hand held tightly to his, whispering in hushed, nervous voices to his daddy as she takes him downstairs. It all happened so fast, and__ now__ here Bakura is, still not even fully awoken, being told to hide in the _garage_ of all places. _

_Gently, Bakura's mother bends down._

_She just stares at her son, for a moment, her eyes meeting his, holding the gaze for a__ long, long time, and she's thinking things her son will never understand. Things like how the world is unfair, cruel, and wishing she could see this beautiful, beautiful little boy grow up__. Bakura __just watches her __back. __Finally, she reaches up a shaking, white hand, and she smoothes some white hair out of her son's beautiful __face, and Bakura feels even more scared than ever when he sees her start to cry. The tears start to roll down her__ cheeks__, bright and clear, and as her fingers caress his skin,__ pressing softly,__ lovingly,__ Bakura frowns, pouting deeply. "Mommy, you're crying!" he says, voice sad,__ upset,__ and__ innocent. _

_The woman laughs; it's not a real laugh, though. It's broken, scared, and weak. She smiles, mostly for her son more than herself, and she shakes her head. "I'm fine, 'Kura," she says, and then, she whispers again, as if trying to convince herself for these last few moments she's going to be with her child, "I'm fine." _

_A silence arises, but it's shorted lived: only a few seconds__ long__. Because, up above, in the foyer, something suddenly crashes, and Bakura's mother gasps. Quickly, she scoops up her little boy and carries him quickly into the garage so that Bakura doesn't eve__n have a second more to protest about the spiders or the fact the garage is "off-limits" or anything like that.__ She plants him down, firmly, right behi__nd what Bakura knows to be his dad's tool shelf. The little boy's body slides perfectly behind the wood, and his mom bends down__, right next to him in his hiding spot__. When she speaks, her voice is so close to Bakura's ear that he shivers,__ feeling her warm breath on his skin. __"Bakura," she says, and her voice is so serious, so strained, that Bakura immediately, despite his confusion, his sleepiness, his fear, __exhales slightly__, straightening as best he can in the small spot to attention. __"Bakura, I love you." _

_Bakura blinks._

_"I-I love you too, Mommy…" he whispers out, not quite sure why she sounds so sad__, like she's about to cry__. Isn't love supposed to be something...something _happy_? _

_Before he can get out another word, his parent is __crushing __him to her chest__ in a__ big__ hug__, so hard it hurts, and Bakura lets out a small grunt, fidgeting slightly in his mother's arms. __He feels her tears wet aga__inst his hair. Finally, she lets go, and then, without another word, he hears her sniffle, and then, she's pulling things in front of him. A toolbox, a beach ball, __a basketball: things that shield her son from view, if anyone were to venture into the garage.__ Bakura's confused, and he opens his mouth to protest, at least until his mother quietly but harshly orders, "Bakura, stay quiet." __And normally, Bakura wouldn't _dream_ of being silent, but with the way his mother sounds, he slams his mouth shut and doesn't dare open it again._

_And then, she's gone, scurrying__ through the garage, closing the do__or, sealing Bakura in darkness, and Bakura can hear her as she moves fast, back up the steps. _

_The little boy __lets out a soft whimper as soon as he's alone._

_But he stays brave. He pretends like he's __a prince, like when he plays make-believe with his friends, and he has to save the princess from the evil dragon. He has to__ be brave, standing there:__ cold, hidden, exhausted, and completely alone, and listen to what his mom told him to do.__ He isn't going to cry, to go back up and try his find his mommy or daddy. He's going to be brave._

_He tries to sit down, but there's not enough room, and soon, the poor little boy's legs start to get achy. His eyelids are drooping, and he's so sleepy it hurts, but something in the little guy tells him not to fall asleep.__ Suddenly, right above him, a second crash comes, then the squeak of a chair sliding on the hardwood floor, and then, a small yelp from his mother. _

_Bakura feels a terror run through him like no other, and the little boy gasps. His mommy is hurt. _

_What is he supposed to do? _

_Sure, he was a brave prince. But princes are supposed to _save_ things__, save others__. And his mommy was hurt, of all people…_

_Bakura takes his tiny little hands, and with a small grunt, he pushes the beach ball, the basketball, away from his face. They bounce—the noise echoing as they move along the concrete floor—and the little boy's face sets in a determined little stare. The toolbox is a little bit harder to maneuver around, but he manages, clambering over it, already quite a limber kid from all his playground romping,__ his few gymnastic lessons, and the trampoline in __his family's __backyard. He moves, quickly, fear moving through him as he breathes out in short little gasps, until he reaches the garage door. Leaning up on his tip-toes, he reaches for the doorknob and gets his little hands around it before turning and stepping out into the basement. He doesn't bother to close the door as he shuffles through the lower level of his home, and then, he half-walks, half-climbs up the steep steps until he reaches the door that leads to the second floor. __And suddenly, he pauses._

_There are voices.__ Voices Bakura doesn't recognize._

_It's two men; they're angry. He hears them yelling, things he doesn't understand, and he hears his daddy yelling back, __and then, there's a crash. It's so loud: glass breaking. Bakura cringes, and he hopes that i__t wasn't his mother's favorite __vase. He almost broke that once, and he got a timeout. _

_And then, it happens, again._

_His mother screams._

_It's louder, this time: m__ore desperate, more scared. Bakura's eyes widen, and he reaches up to the door._

_He has to __rescue __her. _

_He pushes open the door, the slightest bit, and his already wide-eyes almost pop out of his head at what he sees._

_There are two men, like he thought before. They're dressed in dark clothes. They're very scary looking, covered in tattoos and earrings and they're so, so big. Bakura's never seen men that big before. _

_One of them pulls something out of their pocket._

_Bakura gasps; he peers out of the small space he's made for himself in the doorway and watches as his mother, tears streaming down her face, steps back, farther behind his dad, who stands, shaking, in front of his wife. __The man points the thing he pulled out of his pocket at his family._

_Bakura swallows._

_He knows what that thing is; a policeman came into school once and to__ld them they were very dangerous. It was a gun. _

_And then, before Bakura has time to move, to breathe, to _think_, the scary man is pulling the trigger, and the gun goes off. It's a loud, loud `boom,' and it echoes all through the house, hurting the little boy's ears, and Bakura jumps,__ almost shooting into the air __from his small hiding spot. He watches, not able to look away, as the gun shoots, and his dad suddenly falls to the ground with his mother's shriek__ and then __heart wrenching__ sob__. Bakura's brown-eyed gaze follows his father's form to the floor, and he sees his__ parent's__ eyes, suddenly glazed over with a__ terrifying__, white color, a small hole right in his forehead as his neck is twisted to stare right at his son__ in death__, blood pouring from his forehead._

_Bakura feels his knees start to buckle._

_And then, within a m__inute, it's finished._

_One more shot is fired, and Bakura feels his stomach twist and turn as he watches his mother __fly backwards__, her stomach suddenly exploding with blood and guts and things from violent TV shows he's not allowed to watch that he thought were all make-believe but apparently _aren't_. She crashes into the glass patio doors she was standing right in front of, and it shatters, the noise hitting Bakura's ears almost as __violently __as the first gunshot. __The glass flies, and Bakura can see his mother's mangled body outside, illuminated sickly by the unknowing moonlight, shimmering and coated with blood, her clothes torn, her limbs sliced._

_It's quiet, then._

_"Shit, Cee. You think you could have made it _any_ fuckin' louder?"_

_The man who didn't shoot the gun suddenly speaks, and he glares at his companion. The shooter flips him off, shrugging, as if murdering a family is no big thing. And, for him, it really isn't. __"Boss said get it done; I got it done." __Then, slowly, the man walks over to the body of Bakura's father, and he stares down at the dead man, his __face reading disgust. He sneers, and then, he spits, the noise sick and mocking as he __aims __right on Bakura's father's body. "Bastard deserved it. __Did his job, but he c__ouldn't keep his__ damn__ mouth shut."_

_He turns, motioning for his companion to start moving toward the exit. "Cops'll be here soon. We gotta get the hell outta here."__ They make their way toward the foyer, passing right by, unknowingly__ by, the basement door where the last member of the family hides in the dark. _

_And then, Bakura starts crying._

_Out of _all_ the moments he could have started crying__, it was right then.__ Right as the murders were about to leave, leave the boy unharmed, he starts _crying_. The noise is sharp,__ shrill,__ the little boy's sobs echoing through the air, carrying out to the men's ears._

_Bakura _knows_ he should stop; he should be quiet, like his mother told him. But, his mother is dead, now. Bakura's seen enough TV, seen enough movies, learned enough __in __school, to know that m__uch. His entire family is gone.__ He is alone._

_The tears come so fast they hurt; he squeezes his eyes shut, his tiny body shaking, quaking with the sobs. __He can't think, he can't breathe, he can't speak. He can't scream for help; he can't run back to his hiding spot. He just stands there, on the steps, crying__, completely helpless__. _

_The door squeaks open, and the huge shadow of the man with the gun looms over the six-year-old. __Bakura manages to look up, though his tears, __and though his vision is blurry, he __can still see the sneer, the __sickly amused look on the man's face, and the boy shivers harder.__ He's so scary-looking__—like a monster from one of Bakura's bad dreams__. Not only is he _huge_, but Bakura sees a big tattoo, right there on his right wrist: it's a scary looking dragon,__ serpent of some sort,__ with big teeth and scary, sharp scales.__ The very thing__ he's supposed to be fighting as a _prince_, and yet, now, he's scared,__ because suddenl__y, it hits him that he might die__, too._

_And he still can't move._

_"I _knew_ they had a kid running around here," the man muses,__ laughs,__ and__ then__ he r__eaches into his pocket,__ his fingers hooking around __the__ holster of the__ gun. __His sneer only grows, a dark shadow moving across his face, and this is sick. This is the darkest of the dark, the most ruthless of the ruthless: the scum of the human race. The people__ that murder an innocent family and then stare at their six-year-old son sobbing before moving to blow his brains out._

_"Cee, knock the fuck off. Leave the kid. He's__ little__; what harm can he do? Besides, we don't have the fuckin' time."_

_The other man speaks just as the gun is halfway out of his pocket._

_The killer freezes, and he watches Bakura for a moment. Then, without another word, he grunts in something that's probably agreement, and he moves to shut the door. Bakura is still crying. __But, almost as soon as the door is almost completely shut, the man freezes, again. He turns back, and that sick smirk comes back onto his lips as he says,_

_"__You got lucky__, __kid."_

_And then Bakura's falling down the steps, tumbling, rolling, as the man hits him in the back of the head with his gun, pushing him down the stairway until the little boy hits the floor and his world blackens to oblivion. _

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><p>Bakura wakes up, and he's crying.<p>

"Shit," he murmurs, his hands flying to his face, feeling the wetness streaming down his cheeks. Quickly, his eyes move up to the door, and thankfully, it's closed. Ryou didn't come in when he heard him screaming (which he undoubtedly was; he always screamed when he had that dream), and so there's no one to see him cry. The boy wipes at his tears with the back of his hands, sniffling, trying to calm his racing heart, his shaking body. He inhales and exhales deeply, trying to get his mind on something besides the horrid, disgusting memories and images racing through his brain.

"It's over," he finally murmurs to himself, squeezing his hands into fists so hard that when he unclenches them, there are tiny, bloody marks where his nails dug into his pale skin. "It's over."

And that seems to help him calm down, because he closes his eyes, and the pounding in his head, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, suddenly stops. He takes a moment, lingering in the semi-darkness, the haziness of his room, and then suddenly—

The ringtone of his phone breaks through the quiet of his room, and Bakura jumps slightly. Almost falling off of the bed, the boy clambers over to his nightstand, maneuvering his way past a tangle of bed-sheets awkwardly, messily wrapped around his torso and legs, and his fingers grab for his cellphone. He looks at the ID:

_Marik._

Bakura feels his stomach sink to his feet, and he swallows hard, suddenly feeling like he can't breathe.

The call stops after two rings, the music ceasing to move through his room, and Bakura knows what that means. Quickly, he jumps up, untangling himself from the covers, and pulls on his shoes from earlier that day. With a quick glance to his clock, he sees it's about 5:30 in the afternoon, and he licks his dry lips. Moving to the small mirror above his dresser, he looks at himself in the reflection; he looks like hell, of course. His white, messy bed-head hair stands straight up, slick with sweat against his forehead. He reaches up, fiddling with his hair a bit, and that's about all he can do. He has to get going; "late" is not acceptable when meeting up with Marik.

Then, he races out of his room, stuffing his cellphone and wallet into his back pocket. He flies by Ryou, still in the living room, reading a novel, and the boy looks up as the blur of his best friend races by, raising an eyebrow. "Where are you going?" he asks, frowning, and Bakura doesn't even stop, heading for the front door and swinging it open as he says,

"I have to go out. I'll be back late; don't wait up for me."

Ryou tries not to let the disappointment, the anger, the fear, and the hurt well up inside him too badly as Bakura slams the door, and he's left in the empty, quiet apartment.

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><p>R&amp;R :D<p> 


	3. It's Always You

**AN: **I'm so sorry for lengthy delay with this chapter, you guys. The first week I was meant to upload it I was super sick with some sort of 'flu virus, and then the next week I had stupid life commitments and school exams, but it's here now, and hopefully it's okay! So, once again, thanks for waiting. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I still don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!, the plotline is fictional, and the song lyrics and title are from Konstantine by Something Corporate

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><p><strong>Warnings: <strong>Slash, angst, violence, mega-AU-ness.

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><p><strong>K<strong>o**n**s**t**a**n**t**i**n**e**

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><p><strong>oo3<strong>**. It's Always You**

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><p><em>And then you'd bring me home, 'cause we both know what it's like to be alone.<em>

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><p>disclaimer: don't own them, this plotline is fictional, and the song lyrics and title are from "konstantine" by something corporate.<p>

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><p>Marik's office is dark.<p>

Bakura walks in, not even bothering to knock or introduce himself, opening the nice, polished, wooden door quickly, swiftly. He's greeted right away by a dim, shadowed waiting room, and he squints his dark eyes as his pupils dilate. Coming in from the shining sun, it's quite a change, and Bakura grumbles something about "Marik being ridiculous" with the fact he seems to have something against fluorescent, overhead lights. There's a small lamp on a shabby desk in the corner, but the light bulb's probably going to die any minute, and it really isn't offering much illumination, anyway. But, Bakura knows better than to complain; even though he initially walked in here like he owned the place (simply because that's who Bakura is, even if he's shaking in his shoes), he knows when respect is needed, and with Marik, it's definitely needed.

Bakura rolls his eyes slightly, closing the door behind him a little less…_exuberantly_ than he opened it. He tries not to let his annoyance and frustration with this whole situation, being summoned here, to this somewhat shady, otherwise abandoned, well-hidden office building, show _too _badly. Bakura's never been a huge fan of wearing his heart on his sleeve with his work: _not _a good idea.

He's there to get business done, and that's that.

He's sick of this: having to come downtown, act like it's normal to be walking around one of the most seemingly deserted, notorious areas, then walking into this office building, hiking up nasty, cobweb-covered stairs, and waiting in this dingy, dark room before finally getting to talk to this guy who gives him names and faces to kill. It's hard as hell, sometimes; it takes its toll on Bakura, both mentally and physically (the dark bags under his eyes and the random bouts of anger and shouting prove it), but it's his job. He _chose_ this; this all has some rhyme and reason, and even though he's doing one of the most sick, dangerous things that human beings could possibly do—be an _assassin_—it seems to make sense in his head.

Because Bakura's got a mission.

No matter how cliche, how scripted it may be, Bakura is set on avenging his family somehow, someday. That's why he works for one of the biggest gangs around: the one Marik commands, the one Bakura _kills _for; its rivals are the very gang that sent two of its members to kill his family. Now, Bakura doesn't know exactly _who _killed them, which is a bit of an annoyance; he can only assume that whoever they were, they were pretty high up on the food chain and weren't lackies or business ventures like the people that Bakura _normally_ kills are; they'd be risky and a pretty big job if Bakura was ever sent out to do them in. And so far, he hasn't.

But someday, if Bakura has any say in it, he will.

Maybe it's ironic, even somewhat hypocritical, that Bakura is doing exactly what _they _did: murdering. But, God, if Bakura can have the pleasure of putting a bullet through the skull of that bastard who shot his mother, his father, and almost _him_, then all the pain, all the frustration, all the morbidity will be worth it.

It took a while for Bakura to dig up the information about the murders and the gang they were in; it took him a while to really even get the _job _he now has. He was sent to live with his aunt and uncle after his sister and parents' deaths, and they were set on sheltering Bakura even more than his immediate family was. But, Bakura somehow managed to live out the next twelve years of his live in relative…peace, or at least quiet normality (some twisted form of "normality," at least). He somehow managed to convince all the psychiatrists and therapists that he was forced to go see that he was okay, or at least, managing. And maybe, he was (that, or he was just a _damn_ good actor). He was a pretty normal kid, for the most part. He got in trouble; he made friends. On the surface, Bakura, the "weird, _orphan_ kid" that everyone expected to crumble or go insane and get locked up in some institution, was dealing pretty well. But _inside_ his head, there was nothing but _revengerevengerevenge _on his mind.

As he grew older, he made more and more friends: friends who were on the streets more than he was, who knew more people and information than he did. They, for whatever reason, didn't mind Bakura poking around; maybe they were just young and stupid, or maybe they found him amusing and even pitied him a little. But, regardless, Bakura managed to squeeze enough information out of his "friends" more and more over his high school years, just fueling the need for revenge that ran through every vein in his body, and one day, he heard a name dropped; it was a pretty creepy name: something that reminded Bakura of disaster: `Havock' or something. But aside from its simple creepiness, somehow, it stuck with Bakura, and as he went home that night, he thought on it. Sooner or later, maybe a page or two into the history chapter he had to read on the French Revolution and the brutal slayings of all the aristocrats, a memory from a long, long time ago surfaced. His six-year-old mind took the lead, and amidst its pre-corruption, naive musings, Bakura remembers watching his father run his hands over his face in frustration after dinner one night, looking over some designs and plans as he muttered, "that Havock is gonna kill me with this new job he's got me signed on to."

After that, his mother had leaned over and given her husband a kiss, and then upon seeing her little boy in the doorway, she cooed something about freshly-baked cookies, and well, that's where the memory ended.

But it was just enough for Bakura to decide to dig a little deeper.

He wasn't told much when he asked, which surprised him. Normally, his friends were more open, but when he mentioned that name, they got this _look _on their faces, and it took a long, long time for one of them to finally mutter, "He's a part of this, uh, underground gothcore thing: called the `Blue Bloods' or something."

As soon as he got what info he could on this "Havock" person, he wasted no time in asking who the "Blue Bloods" were involved with: more specifically, who they were_ rivaled _with. Once again, he got more shocked faces and cocked eyebrows than an actual answer initially, but with enough pushing, someone shrugged and said, "They haven't gotten along with these other guys—The Hoods—for a while."

Now, Bakura had heard about `The Hoods.' They were a pretty dangerous, major gang, most known for drugs. He found it sort of strange how a well-known gang apparently didn't get along too damn well with a more underground gang—these `Blue Bloods'—whose name Bakura hadn't ever even heard once on the local news. That probably should have worried him more than it did; usually, a lack of notoriety meant the members and people involved with an organization were professional, legitimate, and dangerous enough to keep under wraps.

But, as soon as he got that new information, Bakura's goal was in place, and nothing was going to stop him.

The very evening after high school graduation, he walked downtown to a warehouse he was directed to by one of his "friends" (the location was revealed to him as a quote-un-quote "graduation present") and demanded to see Marik, whom a friend had told him was leader of The Hoods. At first, Marik's "bodyguards" laughed at him; this kid wanted to see _Marik_. But when Bakura stood outside that damn place for six straight hours, not moving an inch, not even faltering, they finally let him in.

Marik was pretty nice, at first. He thought Bakura seemed "okay," (Bakura never understood, and still _doesn't _understand, how he makes such a good first impression), and normally they never did _anything _like this, but Marik admired his tenacity, and he said he saw "something in him that made him want to keep him around." He was questioned, of course. Who are you? Who are your parents (Bakura made up some quick lie about that one)? Where are you from? How did you hear about us? (Marik and his lackies found it funny when Bakura simply answered `I asked' to that last one) But in the end, it was decided Bakura would be signed onto The Hoods.

When asked what exactly he wanted to do, he said "kill."

_Marik _had even looked surprised, then, but with a quick look to his bodyguard and a quick peek into a file, he said, "all right."

The next night, Bakura was assigned his first target.

It was sloppy. Bakura was nervous, and it wasn't exactly like he had _murdered _anyone, before. But he was given specific instructions, _very _specific instructions on where to be, when to be there (down to the _millisecond_, and if he was a _millisecond _late, the job was ruined), what weapons to use, and how to not leave a _trace _of himself behind at the crime scene. Anyway, regardless of how it was done, it was _done_, and Marik must have approved enough of Bakura's ways, because he hired him on.

And now, Bakura can add officially "assassin" to his list of employments.

If Bakura's honest, it was _not _an easy job to get used to. The first few times he killed, he would go home and crawl into his dingy apartment and cry and cry until there were circles black as night under his red-rimmed eyes, and he couldn't keep a bite of food down for a week. Sleep was out of the question, and, frankly, Bakura was just glad he didn't have any real friends so he didn't have to get bombarded with questions about why he looked like Death itself.

But, he got over his regrets, his hesitations, his fears (which he was surprised he _had_, really) and he learned fast. He _had_ to learn fast; if he reported back to Marik with any sloppy results, one of the second-in-command's _far_-too-sadistic bodyguards or lackies might show up at his door that night, and Bakura would have _more_ than a few bruises the next morning.

So Bakura got smarter, faster, and cleverer. He perfected his art, and he became this sort of shell of a human, putting on a facade of happiness and smiles for everyone he ran into during the daylight, when really, once night fell, he was nothing but a monster driven by revenge and murder. It was sick, really, but it brought Bakura one step closer to the one thing he wanted more than anything else in life, and, hey, it wasn't like it paid too badly, either (though, the whole "price on a person's head" thing _still _hasn't stopped creeping Bakura out to a certain extent).

And that's how Bakura lives his life: with a sick, twisted lie. He says, to the "friends" he makes, that he works as a technician at clubs. He still likes music (because, maybe, there _is _something still human about Bakura underneath all his pain), so he does stop by concerts and shows and help set and clean up, having a drink, talk, and forget about everything for a little bit. But that doesn't last long. Bakura's _far_ too aware of his reality, what he is, what he does. He has never let himself relax _too _much. He has never let himself have _too _many drinks, say _too _much. And, most of all, he's never let anybody get _too _close.

Well, except for one person.

Bakura shivers.

No, he tells himself, don't think of Ryou: not at work, not like this. Already, the other boy is too affected by what Bakura does; Bakura isn't stupid, and he sees the way Ryou's face falls when he leaves so quickly, so nervously, and he sees the anger, the hurt, and the bags of worry and sleeplessness under his best friend's eyes. Bakura thinks, in a way, that if Ryou crosses his mind while he's at a job and he dwells too long on him, then somehow, he's involving the skinny boy in what he does even _more, _and, that's just cruel.

So, when Bakura finally opens the door to Marik's office, he completely banishes his mind of anything to do with Ryou. Which was, as Bakura will find, a good idea.

Not a second into Bakura standing but a few feet in the dark office, the door swung swiftly shut behind him, an unmarked manila folder is thrown onto the desk in front of him, and Bakura stares at it. He swallows gently, not moving an inch. On the outside, that folder is like any other folder in any other office in any other place in the world; Marik, or, at least, _whoever _puts these "jobs" together, probably bought it at Staples or Office Max or someplace equally as ordinary. But Bakura knows better; in that folder is a picture, a list, a profile, a _face_ for Bakura to murder next. That thought in itself is enough for Bakura's jaw to tighten, and his spine to straighten just a little bit as he looks up from his next job to Marik's face.

He's always found it funny how Marik dresses.

You'd expect one of the most dangerous people around dress in something besides jeans and a lavender shirt, but that's Marik for you. He's the first-in-command to such a huge organization, and he sort of..._unnerves_ Bakura.

"Bakura," Marik speaks, a small, pleasant smile coming onto his features. "You did good last night."

Bakura doesn't return the smile; he just lets the compliment float right over his head. Who wants compliments on how they _kill_, anyway?

"I did my job," the man simply, politely replies, shifting his weight from one foot to another, and Marik smirks and lets out a light laugh, leaning back in his dark blue desk chair, spinning to the side, slightly.

"You look tired, Bakura," he says, then. The sad thing is, Marik isn't mocking him or teasing him; he's legitimately concerned, because maybe Marik thinks he and the other boy might actually be friends if the circumstances were…different. But Bakura just shrugs in response to his boss's query, licking his lips slightly, letting Marik know he'd like to get this done as soon as possible without words (he wouldn't _dare _say anything like that out loud).

Marik exhales deeply and moves forward in his seat, pushing the folder up toward Bakura a little farther. "Here's your next case," he simply says. "All you need to know is in there." And then, Marik pauses, half-smirking, half-smiling at Bakura in the dim light of the room. "And, Bakura, you don't have to be _too _brutal with this one. He's not a big threat, not a big mistake. He's more of an…annoyance. We just want him out of the picture because he's so damn _irritating_." Marik waves his hand, then, beginning to spin around slightly in his chair, as if he's suddenly bored of talking about this, of Bakura's presence. "Burn the file after you're done."

Bakura nods once, biting his tongue so hard it bleeds.

And then, he's scampering out of Marik's office, slamming the door behind him and heading out into the bright sun. He inhales deeply and feels like he's breathing for the first time after being underwater for hours, closing his eyes for a moment, the file held tightly between his fingertips. And then, he swallows, beginning to walk down the street, as fast as he can back uptown. It doesn't look good to linger.

* * *

><p>When Bakura leaves, Ryou is probably more upset than he should be.<p>

There's a frown on his face for the next few hours, and he can't bring himself to read anymore of his book, so really, he just sits there and stares into space, wondering what to do now, what just happened, and how annoying the ticking clock is in the kitchen.

He doesn't understand Bakura.

One minute, the other boy is smiling with Ryou on the couch, and then he's stormed off, disappearing into his room for hours before rushing back out and just _leaving _him for what will be undoubtedly hours _more_.

To say that his best friend is "frustrating" is somewhat of an understatement.

Ryou wishes he could have more closeness. He never got it really as a child, and even though he _is _very tight with Yugi, there's something about Bakura that's addictive, that makes him special and makes Ryou want more and more of _him _and no one else.

But he'll never get it, will he?

For whatever reason, Bakura doesn't seem to want Ryou as much as Ryou wants him.

* * *

><p>R&amp;R, once again sorry for the delay!<p> 


End file.
